


Hot (Chicken) Soup for the Soul

by hotmilkytea



Category: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Cartoon 2018), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, a shitpost in fic form, based on the meta about Lou Jitsu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:34:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotmilkytea/pseuds/hotmilkytea
Summary: Retirement is not going quite so well for Lou Jitsu.





	Hot (Chicken) Soup for the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> i have had five hours sleep in the past seventy-two.

When the man who became known as Lou Jitsu was a young man, somewhere in the deep, lush Japanese countryside, where his nearest neighbours were mosquitos and a strange old woman who said she could tell the future, but only saw kappa and demons (she was, Lou thought, not a well woman, but her daughter was very attractive), his father would train him in their ancient family art. 

The art of war, yes, but also the art of respect. Of fealty. Of sick take-downs. 

He was instructed to protect this dying art — ah, this modern way of life would be the end of them all, with sons and daughters fleeing the farms for the factories, with shining, shimmering skyscrapers monstering the skyline of Tokyo, of Osaka. Lou was _entrusted_ , he was the new _protector_. 

So he took these ancient, sacred teachings, passed down from father to son across countless generations, and he made Hollywood B-List movies with them. 

——

He made _so many movies_ with them. 

Some idiot producer misunderstood his ki-ai as “ _hot soup_!”, and suddenly, it was everywhere.

(Later, Lou would learn, from that day’s most favourite son, that this was called a _meme_ , and he had _gone viral_ , and there were _so many memes_ , and god he was so exhausted by all these terrible terrible memes.)

Lou Jitsu was an _action hero_. Stoned college students would shake his hand while he waited for his take-out, small boys and girls would yell HOT SOUP and attempt to pile-drive each-other while he signed autographs, and all in all, it was pretty sweet. 

But, as is the fate destined for washed-up martial-arts stars, age and middle-age spread caught up with him. And also, Hollywood found someone newer, and younger, and moderately more attractive. 

Rather than become a racist, right-wing creep with bad hair-plugs and strange dealings with foreign governments, as several of his counterparts, Lou chose a more fitting path.

He answered an ad in the back of a paper promising rejuvenation! Longevity! A newfound appreciation for humanity! He moved to New York, signed an NDA, and paid far too much money. 

Five mutations and four screaming toddlers later, Lou reconsidered the proposition from the Russian government, but by then it was far too late. 

(The escape sequence was worthy of one of his finest movies, and privately, Lou wants to have A Conversation with the insider hack who stole most of it for _Deadpool_.)

——

Lou moved quickly from his glimmering New York City penthouse to a New York City sewer. 

And the four screaming toddlers came with him.

——

Lou had never really expected to be a parent.

He had entertained the thought, of course he had, but he was often far too busy kicking extras around film sets to think about settling. He supposed that it was far more likely that, one day, a handsome young man (obviously taking after his father) would approach him with a photograph of his mother and a tragic letter containing the truth of his parentage, and Lou would hug the kid tearfully and they would talk about all the time they had missed, and Lou’s agent would get them onto _Ellen_ , and rejuvenate his career like a kung-fu Clint Eastwood.

Or something. 

Instead. 

Four turtles. 

He supposed that he should name them.

——

So he named them, but he gave them  _worthy_  names. Good names, full of aspiration and pretension. 

Right now, not a single one of them deserves these intellectual, high-status names, but the last time Lou lost his temper and called them “little shit”, “big little shit”, “clever little shit” and “littlest shit”, it was months before he heard the end of it. 

Somewhere in the background, his placid Raphael is cuddling his favourite blanket, a gentle smile on his face as he sits watching a wonderful show with a white man painting happy little trees. Michelangelo has eaten three Crayola crayons and drawn an adorable hellscape with the rest. Leonardo has been sent to meditate.

And Donatello…

“Purple,  _get down here_ ,” he snaps, jabbing a claw towards the floor, but somehow, at the tender age of nine-and-three-weeks, Donatello has turned the car bonnet that had been intended to protect his back into a jetpack, and is currently floating ten feet up in the air. 

With the TV remote.

_With_. The  _TV_.  _Remote_. 

"Mmmm, I don't wanna," says Donatello, absently -- he is not even paying attention to his dear old dad, he is squinting down the optic of the TV remote with his tongue sticking out of his mouth and almost certainly there are thoughts of genocide running through his head.

(They do not talk about the Great Cockroach Holocaust of 2011, but suffice it to say that Donatello ensured that no, cockroaches absolutely would not be able to survive an atomic bomb blast, and also, Donatello ensured that Lou would never, ever take his son on a scavenger run to Bed-Stuey High ever again, and also, that Lou sleeps with one eye open.)

Sometimes when he’s very tired from coping with these four little hellions, all Lou wants to do is just. Sit down. Have some cheese, maybe some wine if he managed a decent haul from the bodega on the corner. Put on one of his old movies and relive the good times, when he was 6 foot tall, surrounded by beautiful women, and his body was lithe, and powerful.

(His body is still powerful, but it also is not really _his body_ , and never really has been.)

He made so many movies, with so many beautiful women. Like Aiki Dough, the Japanese-Italian pizzeria owner with a dark ninja secret, or Sue and Mo, the wrestling women of the Western Wakayama Wilds. He won _awards_. He won _trophies_.

He summons all of his kindness, his affection, his happy thoughts of what it will be like later, when Donatello is grounded, and _grounded_ , and summarily forced to take sixteen naps in a row, while he luxuriates in the good old times.

“Ohhh, my sweet, talented, clever purple boy,” he croons, with his best gentle affection and paternal love, and absolutely no veiled threats whatsoever, “won’t you come down here to Papa?”

“nah.”

Little _shit_.

Lou takes a deep breath. Unclenches his fists. “If you come do~wn,” he offers, thoroughly disguising his lies, because Lou is, after all, a consummate actor, “I’ll let you watch the Discovery Channel!”

Donatello looks at him sceptically. One eyebrow raises. 

(Lou does not know how his reptile child grew facial hair, but those eyebrows are about as sassy as the rest of the turtle combined, and they, too, are getting grounded.)

 “…really?” he asks, after a pause, because children still have hope, and Lou is not above abusing that hope. 

“Really really.”

Both of Donatello’s eyebrows raise. 

“Promise?” Donatello asks, still bobbing along in midair. 

Lou crosses his fingers behind his back.

“Of course! Would Papa ever lie to you?”

Joy leaps into his son’s eyes, and Donatello practically drops like a rock. 

Sixteen seconds later, Donatello knows the true taste of betrayal, and Lou knows that for the next two months, he will be sleeping with _both_ eyes open. 

——

His sons age, as sons are wont to do.

So does Lou.

And yes, an active lifestyle in youth can often result in decrepit joints later in life, but privately, Lou does not think he should be ageing _quite this fast_. A brief glance at Wikipedia on the longevity of a rat does not give Lou the reassurance he had hoped for. 

And he dreams — of those far-away fields, and that long-forgotten promise; to pass down the teachings he was taught; and he has nightmares, of his four sons alone, in a world that is not always kind to those who are different. 

——

So he trains them.

He makes the conscious decision to give Donatello the least lethal weapon he can, and, when Donatello comes back to the small dojo the next day with the noble bo staff converted into a chainsaw-slash-flamethrower, grounds him. 

Raphael, for all his size and weight, struggles with putting intention into his blows, afraid of hurting his brothers. But when he’s in a particular snit of a mood, or Leonardo is being particularly himself…

He will be a powerful foe. Lou is just thankful that all of that power is buried far beneath so much _gentleness_. 

Speaking of Leonardo…

He’s not sure which of the two is the most _chaotic_ — Leonardo, or Michelangelo, though at times Leonardo displays a rare, vicious focus, and a laser-like insight, as well as an absolute refusal to use it. 

But most importantly, he makes sure that his sons fight _for each-other_. Even when they pair off against each-other, he instills in them that this is for them — every loss is something to learn, every victory is something to savour and celebrate. 

And every one of them is a glow in his heart. 

——

“Dad.”

A strange, irritating buzzing is right next to his ear. 

He swats it away.

“Dad.”

There it is again. So inconvenient, when he is trying to watch his stories. Lately, he’s become a fan of Mexican telenovelas. 

(More specifically, he has become a fan of _la chancla_ , and has put considerable hours of training into his own chancla-jutsu.)

“Daa _aaaaa_ aaaaad.”

He deliberately turns the volume up. Doña Maria has encountered bank robbers, and has flexed her hand towards her sandal. The lead robber has  already burst into tears. 

“It’s okay, little bro,” says another, different voice. “I got this.”

Good, the situation is dealt with. Perhaps now he can have some— “AY YO **_POPS_**.”

——

Sometimes Raphael has to be reminded to use his inside voice.

Sometimes that reminder has to come in the force of making Raphael sit in the Shame Corner for thirty minutes while Leonardo definitely does not poke his brother, but definitely does come very close to it, all the time saying “but I’m not touching you. See? See, Raph? Not touching you. Definitely not touching you. 

 

 

 

Heyyyyyy, _buddy_. What’s 

 

_this_? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

it’s me. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

not touching you.”

——

The first time he sees his sons watching one of his movies, it _hurts_. Like a dagger in the chest, like swallowing a too-hot dumpling, it burns his heart and all the way down. 

They, of course, don’t recognise him. How could they? Lou Jitsu is handsome, Lou Jitsu is slick, Lou Jitsu is _tall_. 

“Splinter”, of course, is not. 

He wonders if he will ever tell them.

He wonders if they will ever believe him. 

(He wonders if they don’t know already — and worries what it means if they don’t. Yes, they are not allowed in his room, but surely even his super-genius cyber-terrorist of a son can’t be _that dumb_?)

When he hears them use “ _Hot soup!_ ” as a battle-cry, however—

He’ll let it slide. For now. 

——

And then his sons go out. 

To battle, to explore — he kept them below long enough. When he was half their age, he was out in the fields and forests all day, exploring, discovering. He can’t keep them in this tiny sewer for the rest of their lives. 

So he lets them out. 

And they go. 

And they _grow_ , from the small babies he knew them first as, from the toddlers who trod on his tail, from the young boys he loved to the young men they are becoming. 

Donatello continues on a path that will lead him to either Supermax or intergalactic conquest, there is no alternative. Leonardo remains so laid back he is in permanent danger of, and often can be found, falling over. Michelangelo is a sensitive, _good_ soul, with a streak of chaos inside of him. 

Raphael, bless his heart, tries well, and means well, caring for his brothers and whatever small creatures they find, but also is still unable to get through the entirety of _Hocus Pocus_ without _gassing the room._

But they learn.

And they meet friends, as boys should. Try to clean up after their mistakes, as young men should.

When they’re not giving him a migraine, Lou thinks, he’s not doing too bad of a job for an old man. 

——

Except then, his sons end up on TV. His sons end up _wrestling_. His sons end up giving him an ulcer. 

“Dad,” Leonardo says, his face creased in concern as he replaces the cold compress on Lou’s head. The compress is wonderfully cool, and wrung out just enough that it does not send drips of water trickling into his fur; Leonardo is, when he wants to be, remarkably thoughtful. “You’ve gotta try to take it easy. You’re not getting any younger, pop-pop.”

Lou doesn’t have the energy to _strangle the boy_. 

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i started watching this show and i was not here for splinter but looking at the four hell children he has to deal with, i, too, would want to peace out and watch TV and pretend i don’t know what shit they’re getting themselves into


End file.
